


when all the rest is gone, i'll be holding on (for you, for you)

by lancelotdulac



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Sort Of, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, but it's all ok in the end, is there any part of this show that isn't angsty and full of love, listen this one sort of got away from me while i was writing, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lancelotdulac/pseuds/lancelotdulac
Summary: He starts taking long walks around the castle grounds to avoid sleeping in the too-large, too-empty room.This is how he meets Gwaine. Well, re-meets. They did have that whole saving-Camelot-with-Arthur-and-Merlin thing last week, but the threat of impending doom hanging above their heads at the time kind of took precedence over getting acquainted.A brief timeline of Gwaine and Lancelot's... relationship? Is that what it is?
Relationships: Gwaine/Lancelot (Merlin), Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), if you squint
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	when all the rest is gone, i'll be holding on (for you, for you)

**Author's Note:**

> This one REALLY got away from me while I was writing it. I'd had the beginning written and sitting in my drive for months, and the ending... well, just you wait.  
> This starts post-season 3, pre-season 4, and later we pretend that 4x9 never happened. Some liberties taken but mostly canon compliant.

Lancelot knows he should be happy. Morgana has been defeated, he’s been invited to join the ranks of Camelot along with the rest of the newly-knighted, Gwen and Arthur are together and happy and everything is great (with the possible exception of Uther, but Uther has never been ‘great’ by Lancelot’s standards anyway). Everyone is just relieved to be back to a semblance of normal again.

Except Lancelot, who can’t seem to figure out how ‘normal’ works anymore.

It’s bewildering to go from sleeping under trees and rocks, or cheap inns and stables on good nights, to spending each night on a feather bed in a room that’s all his own. The walls echo when he takes off his boots and armor for the night, and his mattress is too soft. Some nights, he feels the emptiness of the room pressing against him, making his head spin. He starts taking long walks around the castle grounds to avoid sleeping in the too-large, too-empty room.

This is how he meets Gwaine. Well, re-meets. They did have that whole saving-Camelot-with-Arthur-and-Merlin thing last week, but the threat of impending doom hanging above their heads at the time kind of took precedence over getting acquainted.

Lancelot is one one of his walks, leaning on a balcony overlooking the city when he feels, rather than hears or sees, the presence behind him. He turns. Gwaine is there, twirling a dagger nonchalantly on one finger.

“You’re up late,” Gwaine remarks.

“So are you.”

“I just got off patrol. You’re in pajamas.”

Lancelot is _not_ in pajamas. This shirt is just loose on him and gapes wide at the neck, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight for his dignity. “Maybe I’m sleepwalking.”

It’s a weak joke, and his delivery is deadpan, but Gwaine smiles anyway. “Looking for anything in particular, or just strolling?”

It’s open-ended, phrased innocently enough, but Lancelot knows a come-on when he hears one. “Haven’t decided yet.” A hunger starts to uncurl in his stomach, one he’s been dulling for months. Months of sleeping in caves and ravines and other damp, dark places, craving the warmth of another person beside him and waking up cold and alone.

He wants this, he realizes. He likes the way Gwaine walks, how he moves, quick and sure, the curve of his mouth and the straight line of his nose. Lance wants to see where this goes.

Gwaine looks down, looks up, and gives a charming, crooked smile. “Can I help with that?”

His mind is made up. Lance straightens. Gwaine steps back, as if he’s afraid Lancelot is going to hit him, but Lance just nods.

They’re quiet, or at least as quiet as sex can be without being awkward. After, he finds himself stroking the line of Gwaine’s back, one arm wrapped around him while the moonlight shining through the window spills patterns on the floor.

“We’re alike, you and me,” Gwaine says, quiet, and Lancelot starts, because he’d thought the other was asleep.

“What, this?” he asks, gesturing to the two of them with his free hand.

“Nah. We’re outsiders. Commoners,” he says, and his head sinks another inch into the too-soft pillows. “We don’t belong here.”

He’s surprised that Gwaine has the capacity to understand a fear that Lancelot thought belonged only to him. He shouldn’t be surprised, though; as he’ll learn later, beneath the layers of drinking and flirting and rash decision-making, Gwaine is actually quite smart.

“You belong here,” he says, because Gwaine is a natural with the others, with his unique talent for making the right joke at the right time, his ability to blend seamlessly in with the rest of the knights like he’s known them his whole life.

“I’m a good actor. Deep down, I’m just as lonely as you.”

“Who says I’m lonely?”

Gwaine squints at him. “You did just invite a near-stranger to bed with little to no hesitation.”

“I hesitated.”

“For, like, three seconds. I didn’t even have to seduce you, and that’s a shame, because I’m an excellent seducer. You missed the chance to see my artistic seduction skills at work.”

This prompts a laugh from Lancelot, because anyone who’s known Gwaine for more than a minute has been victim or witness to Gwaine’s ‘artistic seduction skills.’

“You can seduce me next time,” he says, and then realizes the implications of that statement and bites his tongue.

Gwaine lets it slide without comment, which surprises Lance again. Will he ever stop being surprised by this man? “Should get some sleep, training tomorrow’s at the crack of dawn.”

“Right.”

Gwaine doesn’t move to get up, and Lancelot finds he’s glad for that. He can’t remember the last time he had someone stay the night with him.

As he drifts off, one arm still wrapped around Gwaine’s shoulders, the sleepy thought crosses his mind that the room doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

He doesn’t mean to make a habit of it, he really doesn’t. For this reason, he waits three nights (sleepless, mildly torturous, his mind gnawing at him) before returning to the balcony.

Gwaine is waiting there. His face is turned to the outside, arms crossed over his chest. It’s a rare sight, seeing him standing still--he’s such a physical being, perpetually in motion, flipping his hair out of his eyes or shifting his feet or tossing something from hand to hand. The sight of him sends a shiver of anticipation through Lance. _Stop that_ , he tells himself firmly. _Get a grip_.

“So,” Gwaine says, still facing away from him.

“So.”

He turns now, his face half-illuminated by the light of the torch burning on the wall opposite. “Are we gonna talk?”

“We can talk.”

They’re facing each other almost warily, close, but not too close. Lance folds his arms, suddenly self-conscious.

“Didn’t know if I’d run into you again,” Gwaine says, almost casually.

“Me neither.”

“Have you been avoiding me?”

He has, but it seems stupid to say so now. “No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” He doesn’t seem angry, which is good. “I wasn’t trying to scare you off. I just thought you could use a friend.”

“You were right.” He’s starting to regret these past three days; they were pointless, in retrospect. “I’m sorry, I’ve been...”

“An idiot?” Gwaine supplies.

“I deserve that. And worse.”

“Oh, come on, you’re supposed to argue with me. You take all the fun out of it, giving in so quick.” A slight smile spreads across his face, and he nudges Lance’s shoulder to show he doesn’t mean it. “It’s all right.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I was just... worried. I’m not good at this,” he confesses. “I don’t do this. I don’t know _how_ to do this.”

Gwaine appraises him. “For such a big man, you’re quite sensitive.”

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” Fondness is creeping into his tone.

“I’m told it’s part of my charm.” He pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against. “Let’s get out of here. There are more comfortable places to talk.”

Lance follows him. “Where are we going?”

“My rooms. Where did you think I was taking you, the stables?”

Lance snorts. “I try to expect the unexpected, with you.”

Gwaine’s chambers are as sparse as Lancelot’s. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, really--gold sheets? Barrels of ale in the corners? A secret stash of apples under the bed? But it’s plain and functional: wardrobe, dressing screen, desk and chair. The bed in the middle looks ordinary enough. Lancelot runs a hand over one of the posts.

Gwaine approaches from behind to drape an arm over Lance’s shoulder. “Checking for notches?” he asks wryly.

“I thought it’d be more notch than bedpost by now.”

“Hm.” Gawine starts undoing the laces of Lance’s breeches with one hand, pressing up against his back. He’s warm and solid, and Lance can feel the corded muscles of his arms and chest sliding as he moves. “Well, you were wrong.”

His hand is moving skillfully now, and Lancelot moans in an undignified sort of way.

“‘S that good?”

“Yeah--mnh, keep going.”

He kisses along the side of Lance’s neck. “You’ve got a pretty mouth,” he whispers, like a confession. ”I like the way you say my name.”

“Gwaine,” he murmurs, and Gwaine’s breath hitches.

They’re less quiet this time, but Gwaine assures him between gasps that it doesn’t matter, no one will hear, and fuck that’s good right there yeah like that.

“You really think I do this all the time?” Gwaine asks, after.

Lancelot doesn’t answer right away, he’s fucked-out and feeling lazy. He presses a kiss to the top of Gwaine’s head. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Not as much as you’re thinking. I have standards. But, you know, men, women, it’s all the same to me.” He shifts into the curve of Lance’s body. “I was surprised at you. I wasn’t sure which way you swung, so to speak. Part of me thought you were still a virgin--noble Lancelot and all that.”

He half-laughs. “Noble doesn’t mean virginal.”

“Still. What was your first time?”

He tilts his head back. “I was eighteen. A girl from my village, Elaine. It wasn’t very good.”

“So, women and men?”

“I suppose.” He thinks of Guinevere. “Usually women.”

“I feel special, then.”

“You should. You are.” There’s something more than desire aching in his chest. He doesn’t want Gwaine to leave. Not now, not ever. He turns Gwaine towards him, gently, and kisses him.

This is different from the other kisses. This is slow, languid, ardent. Gwaine’s lashes brush his cheek. Lancelot grips him by the waist, pulls him closer.

He wants a lot of things right now. For the sun to linger below the horizon for a few more hours; for Gwaine to promise he won’t leave; for a place, somewhere, somewhen, that the sun wouldn’t rise till he let it.

He conveys some version of this and feels Gwaine smile against his shoulder.

“I dunno if there is such a place, but I promise if I find it...”

“You’ll save me a spot?”

His breath is warm on Lancelot’s skin when he laughs. “Something like that.”

There is a lot of unfairness in the world, Gwaine thinks. Apples are only in season for a few months, winter exists, laws made by unjust kings are carried down through generations. But the greatest unfairness of Gwaine’s life has to be just how short a time he got with Lancelot.

He wakes up in a cave, disoriented, head aching. The last thing he remembers is charging straight at that sorceress-woman-thing--the Cailleach, he recalls vaguely. A few feet away from him, Merlin is cradling Arthur’s head in his lap and there are tears streaming down his face.

For a second, Gwaine panics, thinking Arthur is dead, but then he sees Arthur’s chest move and he’s overcome by a short wave of relief. And he looks around so he can share the moment with—

“Where’s Lancelot?”

Merlin’s face crumples.

Those first few days are impossible to describe. They pass in a haze of grief and confusion; there’s a funeral, and all the knights are solemn-faced, and Gwen cries a lot. Gwaine doesn’t want to be in his rooms anymore because they remind him of _him_ , but he also doesn’t want to leave them.

Merlin is the only one who seems to understand even a little. On the days when Gwaine can bear human company, he usually ends up at Gaius’s, and it's Merlin who talks him through his darkest hours, chattering about Arthur and his chores or just sharing the burden of silence. Gwaine appreciates him more than words can say.

Torturously, it does get easier, and he hates that it does, because if he forgets how much it hurts, it’s like he’s forgetting Lance. But when he tells this to Merlin, Merlin just shakes his head and says _instead of remembering the worst bits, try remembering some of the good. He’d like that better than seeing you hurting for the rest of your life_.

Merlin is wise beyond his years, and Gwaine tells him so.

There are years in between. The sun keeps rising and the seasons turn as they’re supposed to. There are marriages and arguments and scandals around the castle, same as ever. Treaties are signed. Magic is used and abused, and Gwaine experiences some of it firsthand. He’s imprisoned and starved and beaten, he rescues damsels in distress, he buries more of his friends than he ever thought he'd have to. And he is betrayed, time and time again, by other friends.

Gwaine has always had the ability to let things slide off his back, and he does, he does, he does, until it’s all piled up too high and he's drowning in it. But he continues for such a long time with his head above the water. There are good days: feasts, celebrations, music and light. Merlin is by his side through it all, and Gwaine realizes that he's always been his best friend--he would follow Merlin to the ends of the earth. He nearly does, once or twice.

And the kingdom begins to change. There are skirmishes, which become fights, which turn into real battles, and then there's a full-on a war. And Gwaine fights, because that's what he does. The only thing he ever really learned how to do.

It ends for him around this time. Headstrong and heartbroken, he thought he could take on Morgana, fucking _Morgana_ , just him and his steel against her magic. Before, there had been very few problems he couldn’t solve by swinging his sword at them. But this one is different. She tosses him aside like a toy soldier, and all his skill with a sword is worth less than a toothpick in a tempest.

And then he’s alone, and she’s torturing him, cracking his mind open, and he never thought pain could be this exquisite.

Minutes pass like eternities, and at some point in his pain-fogged mind, he realizes that she’s left him alone.

He's failed. He’s a husk of a broken thing. He betrayed his king, and this is the first time he's ever truly hated himself--not for breaking, but for failing another person.

Being _Gwaine_ has always been a certain thing--a tangle of charm and swordplay, love and strength, bound together by his surety and his resilience and the admiration (or spite) of the people around him. He has prided himself on being this person, this thing-that-is-Gwaine, for so long, and it's only now as he sinks in and out of consciousness that he realizes it's only worth being alive if you've got people to live for.

Knights don't grow old, he thinks, and the faces of the friends who've loved and left him swim before his eyes. It was always going to end like this.

He just wishes--he just wishes he weren't alone.

He is too broken to summon a sob, a gulp of air, anything to ease his passing or prolong it. Even the pain begins to loosen its grip as his vision dissolves. He’s lost hope of seeing the stars again when a familiar voice meets his ear.

 _Percival_. His strong arms cradle Gwaine to the ground, and as his awareness fades, he thinks, _how lucky I am, to die with a friend at my side_.

He’s never been religious in any sense of the word. He didn’t expect anything, you know, after. But through the black that’s overtaken his vision like soft velvet, a pinprick of light appears and starts to expand.

He’s still dizzy and he can’t see, but he feels the light pressure of a sword-callused hand on his shoulder. Smells that almost-forgotten mix of woodsmoke and spice, a scent he used to know better than his own. One that he had pressed his head into his pillow to catch the last traces of, years ago, when it was his last thought before falling asleep and his first thought on waking.

“...Lancelot?” he whispers. His throat is no longer scratchy with pain.

The face in front of him fades into focus. “Took you a while,” he says, and _God_ , how Gwaine has missed that face, that low voice, those dear, beloved eyes. “Good thing I saved you a spot.”


End file.
